Ralph Compton The Omaha Trail

By Jory Sherman and Ralph Compton

A rancher must contend with a snake in the grass in this pulse-pounding Ralph Compton western.

Dane Kramer looks forward to the day when his Oklahoma cattle ranch will truly be his—no strings attached. With only one more payment to make and a buyer in Omaha ready to pay top dollar for a herd of Herefords, he should finally have the banker Earl Throckmorton off his back. But Earl has a plan to keep the sprawling ranch for himself. If he has his way, Dane’s herd will never make it across the Omaha Trail—and Dane won’t make it home alive.

Up against Earl’s hired gang of outlaws, Dane must do whatever it takes to bring in the herd—but Earl has more than one trick up his sleeve. Planting one of his own men in Dane’s newly hired team of cowhands could be just the insurance Earl needs....

More Than Six Million Ralph Compton Books In Print!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781101656044

Jory Sherman

Jory Sherman wrote more than 400 books, many of them set in the American West, as well as poetry, articles, and essays. His best-known works may be the Spur Award-winning The Medicine Horn, first in the Buckskinner series, and Grass Kingdom, part of the Barons of Texas series. Sherman won the Owen Wister Award for Lifetime Contributions to Western Literature from the Western Writers of America. He died in 2014.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dane Kramer, owner of the Circle K Ranch in Shawnee, Oklahoma, rode the whiteface calf down into heavy brush. The calf had been struck by lightning the night before when a violent thunderstorm had swept over the plains, stampeding some of his herds, knocking down trees, and stripping some of their limbs. Some of the roofs on his outbuildings were in tatters, and debris lay strewn along a mile stretch from one tank to another. The tanks were filmed over with dust and leaves and stray branches that would have to be skimmed off with long-handled rakes.

The calf had a streak of raw flesh running from its neck to its tail, right along the spine. The calf needed doctoring or it could die, Dane knew.

He called to one of his hands, Joe Eagle, a Cherokee. I’ve got him spotted, Joe. The little feller is caught in that gully full of brambles.

Be right there, Dane, Eagle replied from the other side of the gully. Can you get a rope on him?

I don’t think so. Might take two of us to drag him out.

Eagle spurred his horse, a small dun, with bogged tail and mane, and rode to where Dane waited.

The bulging black elephantine clouds of the early morning had blown east and left only streamers of ash gray clouds in their wake. These were far to the west and the sun had not risen high enough to paint them peach and gold. There was a dankness to the air, the cloying scent of rain that had left glistening beads on the branches and buds in the thick brush where the calf was imprisoned. It was early spring in Shawnee Mission, Oklahoma Territory, and the grasses were still short on the prairie.

Joe Eagle trotted up alongside Dane. He saw the calf struggling with the blackberry vines, kicking its way into even more tangles. Its long tongue lolled from its mouth like a pink ribbon and its brown eyes were rolling in their sockets, flashing shadows and sunlight with a glassy intensity. The calf bawled and flailed with its front hooves as it tried to jump through the mesh of vines and sapling bushes.

Him heifer, Eagle said.

Yep, Joe. I saw it happen. She was standin’ next to that hickory tree by the home pond. Sky lit up bright as a shiny silver dollar and twined around that tree, then jumped over to the calf. Stripped her back just like that tree, only the tree looks like an unpainted barber pole now. Lightnin’ just twined around it and then run the length of that little heifer’s back.

Heap storm, Joe said. Heap lighting. Heap rain.

We got to get her out of there and not get caught in that brush ourselves.

You get head. I get tail. We drag out and rope.

Good idea, Joe, Dane said. He dismounted and ground-tied the sorrel gelding to a clump of sage.

Joe slipped from his saddle and let his reins trail. The dun was a cow pony and well trained to stay where Joe left it.

The two men walked into the gully, two yards apart. Joe headed for the tail of the calf while Dane forged toward its head and neck. The two waded and clomped down on brittle brush while the heifer bawled and kicked and jumped to escape both from the patch of berry vines and the two humans bearing down on it.

Dane grabbed the calf’s left ear and then wrapped his wiry arm around its neck. Joe dived between the hind legs and grabbed them just above the hooves and lifted its rear end waist-high. He grunted as the calf twisted and struggled to free itself. Its legs pumped back and forth, but Joe increased the pressure of his grip and started dragging it toward the rim of the gully.

Dane wrestled the calf’s head until it bent down toward his boots and then pulled in concert with Eagle.

They got the calf onto bare land. It was bawling and struggling, kicking with those cloven hooves and bucking like a bronco out of the chute.

You sit on her, Joe. I’ll get a rope.

You sit on neck. Joe get rope.

Dane grinned. Sweat drenched his face, dripped in streaks from under his hatband. His shirt was plastered to his back, and the armpits of the gray chambray were sweat-soaked ovals, dark as a cow dug.

Good idea, Joe, Dane said, and bulldogged the calf’s head to the ground. Joe released the hind legs and scrambled over the calf and sat on his neck, pinning the animal to the ground.

Dane ran to his horse and untied the leather thong that held the looped coil of manila rope. He found the loop and widened it as he came upon Joe and the calf.

Joe reached out and grabbed the loop, pulled it over the calf’s head clear to the shoulders. Dane pulled on the rope and tightened the loop until it was snug around the calf’s neck.

Joe stood up and stepped away from the heifer. It stood there, spraddled, its brown and white curly hide dulled with dust and the detritus of the brush. It looked stupefied and stopped its caterwauling.

Dane handed the coiled rope to Joe. Hold her tight. I got a tin of salve in my back pocket.

Hunh, Joe grunted, and grasped the rope. He held the rope in one hand and bent the calf’s head toward its chest with the other, holding it in place.

Dane reached into his back pocket, the one that did not hold his tobacco pouch, and pulled out a flat tin box. The tin, which had once held snuff, now was packed with Indian Salve. The original label from which he had drawn this portion proclaimed it to be vegetable and animal. The ad on the original label said that the salve was an invaluable specific for the cure of cuts, tumors, swelling, running sores, burns, freezes, chopped hands, and corns.

The price of the salve had been twelve and a half cents when he bought it from a medicine peddler passing through Shawnee Mission. The peddler said the salve was prepared and sold by Merritt Griffin of Glens Falls, New York. And that too had been on the label.

Dane figured that the calf had at least two of the ailments, perhaps three. When he looked at the slashed flesh, he saw that there was some swelling, and it was probably burned and would wind up as a running sore.

Joe, you hold that calf real steady while I smear this salve over its wound.

Dane twisted the lid off the tin and let it drop to the ground.

Joe sniffed the odor emanating from the salve. Him stink, he said.

Yep, it smells to high heaven, Joe, but it’s better’n ointment. Last longer, I reckon.

Dane stuck two fingers into the salve and withdrew a dollop of the medicant. He started at the tail and laved the goop on, dipping into the tin for more salve until he had covered the entire pink of the exposed flesh. When he finished, the tin was almost empty and it still gave off a rank odor.

Okay, Joe, you can let her go. I’ll dope her again in a couple of days and see how she’s doin’.

Joe slipped the loop off the calf’s neck. It stood there for a long moment, then took one gingerly step, then another. It wagged its short tail and shook its head.

If she don’t lick it off, that salve ought to cure her. A wonder she didn’t get electrocuted, Dane said.

The calf made a sound and slowly trotted away toward the pasture in front of the ranch house.

At least she knows where home is, Dane said.

Heap smart heifer, Joe said, and ginned.

Joe stood a head shorter than Dane, who was not tall, but barely reached five feet and ten inches. Dane was clean-shaven with straight brown hair that was chopped even all around and did not touch his shoulders. He was all sinew and muscle, while Joe had a slightly bulging midriff, burly arms, and bowed legs from many hours and days astride his dun horse.

Dane picked up the lid of the tin and screwed it back on the container, tucked it into his pocket. Then he wiped his hand on his denim trousers, picked up a handful of dirt, and scrubbed away the stench before rubbing the dust off.

Both men saw the calf bolt a few yards to its left. They looked beyond the switching tail and the salve-smeared back and saw a rider heading their way.

Him come, Randy, Joe said.

Sure looks like Randy, Dane said. Wonder what he wants.

Him hurry, Joe said.

He was right. Randy Bowman was coming at a gallop, slapping the sides of his paint with the trailing ends of his reins, the front brim of his hat bent back from the breeze he was fanning with his speed.

Dane reached into his other back pocket and pulled out a tobacco pouch. He opened it and plucked a clump of it and worked it into his mouth. With his tongue, he evened the tobacco out and began to chew it, savoring the nicotine juices that squirted into his mouth. His brown eyes glistened in the pale sunlight and he wiped the sweat streaks from his brow with the back of his left hand.

Randy rode up and skidded his horse to a stop. Dane, they’s somebody at the house wants to talk to you.

Who is it? He in a hurry?

He’s, well, he’s mighty anxious. Says he’s from Omaha.

Omaha?

Yep, Randy said. That’s what he said. Big feller. Dressed kind of fancy.

Omaha, Texas? Dane asked.

No, sir. Clear up in Nebraska Territory.

Omaha, Nebraska? Dane asked.

Yep, sure enough. I ast him twice. I was shoein’ that swaybacked mare in the barn when he come up and called out. Your pa, he was sitting in the front room and I heard him thump his cane like he was rarin’ to run out and see who it was rode up.

What’s the feller want? Dane asked.

Hell if I know, Randy said. But when he talks, he bellows, and I hopped on Patches here and got to you fast as I could.

He asked for me by name? Dane asked.

Yes, sir, he done said he come to see Dane Kramer of the Circle K, like it was a real formal visit.

Randy, you wouldn’t know formal from a pie social. What in hell do you mean?

I don’t know, but he walked right in and is talkin’ to your pa in the front room.

Just walked right in, did he?

Like he belonged in your house.

I think maybe my pap invited him in, Dane said.

Well, I reckon. I got to get back. That mare’s kickin’ at her hobbles and might hurt herself if I don’t hurry back.

Run along, Randy. Joe and I will mosey up to the house.

Randy turned the paint and rode off at a gallop.

He was a young man, a drifter, who had come to the ranch about six months before, looking for work. He never said where he was from or talked about his parentage. He slept in the barn and seemed to bond with animals, especially horses. Dane figured him to be seventeen or eighteen. He paid the boy ten dollars a month and fed him. He was cheap help at that, because he hauled food from Shawnee Mission when asked and fixed fencing, could set a pole in hard ground, and knew how to tack on shoes to unshod horses or replace worn ones with new.

Eagle and Kramer lifted themselves into their saddles.

Well, let’s see what the man from Omaha has to say. He must have something on his mind to come all this way a-lookin’ for me.

Maybe, Joe said, you owe him money.

He said it as a joke, but Dane’s face clouded up and his lips clamped tight. He spat a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. Only man I owe money to is Throckmorton, that greedy banker in the Mission. If Mr. Omaha is here to buy me out, I’m going to throw him out on his ear.

Heap big man, Randy say, Eagle said.

You know, Joe, a boot in the nuts can make a man mighty small mighty quick.

Joe Eagle laughed.

That true, he said, and the two rode on as the sun rose and the heat began to burn through their clothes and dry the sweat on their faces.

Chapter 2

Thorvald Kramer pumped his cane up and down. It thumped on the oak floor of the front room. It was, to him, a mighty cane, because his son, Dane, had crafted it from the penises of bulls he had raised and butchered. He had glued them all together, shellacked them so that the cane was a single piece of hard, straight flesh with a metal tip made from melting down and shaping an iron horseshoe.

Tell the man to come inside the house, Thor shouted as he pounded on the floor with his cane.

Thor was bent over in his chair. His spine was bowed so that his back formed a parenthesis, bowed so much that he appeared to be a hunchback. He was eighty-five years old, but his mind was as sharp as a barber’s razor. His balding head was streaked with strands of gray hair, swept back by his brush, so that his head appeared streamlined, especially with that hunched-over stance when he stood up from his overstuffed rocking chair.

The door opened and a large, heavyset man had to duck to enter the room.

Who be ye? Thor demanded when the man was clear of the door and stood up straight.

The name’s Himmel, sir. Otto Himmel.

Well, set down on the divan there, Mr. Himmel, and tell me your story. Why are you here and what do you want with my son?

Randy stood there, gape-mouthed, in the doorway.

Thor shook his cane at the young man and growled at him in his gravelly voice, You ride out and find Dane, young feller, and tell him to get his sorry ass back here pronto.

Yes, sir, Mr. Kramer, Randy said, his sharp-pointed Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, threatening to puncture the skin of his skinny throat. He wheeled and went out the door, easing it back so that it wouldn’t slam. If it had made a noise, he knew he would feel the explosive wrath of Thorvald, complete with snarl and invective.

Otto Himmel sat down on the divan and looked around the room. Above the fireplace, he saw a Kentucky long rifle with its polished curly maple stock, hanging on wooden pegs. Next to it was a powder horn dangling from another peg. There were tintypes in frames of prairie scenes and some Currier & Ives colored prints of horses and carriages, exotic fountains, and buildings. There was also a photo, faded to a yellowish brown, that looked very old in an oval frame.

That’s my ma, Thor said, pointing with his cane at the picture. Danish woman. My pa was German. Like you, eh, Mr. Himmel?

I am of German heritage, yes. My parents were both born in Andernach, Germany. They came to this country in 1815. I was born in Pittsburgh. They never did speak English very well and I never learned the German language.

Himmel was a huge man, topping six feet, with rounded shoulders and a belly as big as a Chicago stove. His boots were polished and seemed to have the same sheen as his dark hair and the handlebar mustache beneath his nose. His eyes were small and porcine, as blue as a June sky, as penetrating as sharp-pointed darts.

Handsome woman, Himmel said. His tone was polite but wary.

You want some coffee, Himmel? Thor asked.

I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Mr. Kramer.

Call me Thor. No trouble. Ora Lee keeps a pot goin’ all day long. I got to have my coffee every mornin’ and through the day.

That would be fine, Himmel said.

Thor thumped his cane on the floor several times.

Ora Lee. Ora Lee, he called.

Seconds later a large dowdy woman came down the hall from the kitchen and entered the room. She wore a blowsy dress of soft linen, dyed mauve, with streaks of gray in her bundle of hair piled atop her large head. She had puffy lips faintly brushed with a light rouge, rouge circles on her checks. She had at least three chins that looked like a bloated accordion. Short, with stocky legs covered in blond stockings. Her shoes were the type worn by nurses and washerwomen, black, with large sturdy heels and white laces.

Yes, sir, Mr. Thor, she said. More coffee?

More for me and a fresh cup for Mr. Himmel, Ora Lee, if you please.

I didn’t know we had a visitor, she said to no one.

Ora Lee’s been with me for better’n two years, Himmel. She cooks and cleans and makes my bed. Sometimes she rubs my back.

Ora Lee’s face flushed a bright pink and she left the room, waddling down the hall on those functional black shoes of hers.

Himmel cleared his throat and looked up at the beamed ceiling of the log home, the cobwebs in two corners that looked like swamp mist.

Thor swung his attention to Himmel as if trying to figure out what brought him to the Circle K.

Just what did you want to see Dane about, Himmel? he asked. Earl send you out?

Earl?

Earl Throckmorton. Runs the Prairie Land Bank over at the mission.

Never heard of him, Himmel said.

Ora Lee Gibson returned to the front room carrying a small wooden tray. She set it on the little table next to Himmel’s chair. She lifted a pot and poured coffee into a cup, then carried the pot to Thor, who held out his almost-empty cup. She poured steaming coffee to within an inch of the brim. He nodded to her and she set the pot back on the tray.

There’s some fresh cream there, Ora Lee said to Himmel, and some sugar in that bowl with the teaspoon.

Thanks, Himmel said. I like my coffee black.

Suit yourself, Ora Lee said, and left the room on stout muscular legs, her shoes clacking on the hardwood floor of the hallway.

Ora Lee follered us from Texas, Thor said. We pulled up stakes in the Rio Grande Valley when Cap’n King started buyin’ up all the land and we figured that if we stayed in those parts, he’d eventually swaller us up, lock, stock, and barrel.

I’ve been there, Himmel said as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.

Where? Thor asked.

The Rio Grande Valley. Lots of cattle. Lotta land.

You got that right. You sure Earl didn’t send you out here?

I’m sure, Mr. Kramer. Er, I mean, Thor.

Well, what do you want to see Dane fer?

Himmel worked the coffee around in his mouth to cool it before he swallowed it. I prefer to conduct my business with Dane Kramer, sir, with all due respect.

Hell, I’m his pa. Him and me don’t hold no secrets from each other. Thor seemed to bristle as he leaned his bent frame forward in the chair.

It’s just my policy, sir. No exceptions.

Dang it all, you got my curiosity all perked up and won’t tell me why you come out here.

I’m sorry, Thor. It’s just my policy. I deal with a lot of parties and it seldom pays to discuss business with anyone except the principal. I hope you understand.

Thor leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee after blowing on it with bloodless pursed lips. Parties and principals, eh? Well, out here we talk man to man, ’thout’n no formalities. Where did you say you was from, Mr. Himmel?.

Why don’t you call me Otto, Thor? We might become friends, you and I. I’m from Omaha, up in Nebraska, and I’ve come to see your son, Dane. On business.

I don’t know how you do business up in Omaha, but we lay it all out on the table down here. I don’t think Dane is much interested in any business you got in Omaha.

Himmel flashed a weak smile at Thor and took another sip of coffee, as if to stop any further conversation that might issue from his mouth.

The two sat in silence for several minutes. They drank their coffee and seemed oblivious of each other.

They heard hoofbeats a few minutes later.

That would be Randy comin’ back from tellin’ Dane you was here, Thor said.

So Dane can’t be very far away, Himmel said.

Nope. He had to chase a calf down what got itself struck by lightning early this mornin’.

I was in that storm, Himmel said. Got soakin’ wet. My bedroll’s still damp, I suppose.

You rode down here on horseback all the way from Nebraska?

I did, Himmel said. A buggy wouldn’t have made it and I have a good horse. No trail along the Missouri River.

Well, I swan. All the way down from Omaha. Just to see a principal party. Thor shook his head in mock disbelief.

It was quite an experience, Himmel admitted.

I reckon so.

They had finished drinking their coffee when they heard more hoofbeats coming toward the house at a rapid pace.

That would be Dane and Joe Eagle, Thor said. Won’t be long now before you can state your business to the principal.

Himmel ignored the sarcasm and finished his coffee. He tapped a pocket of his vest but did not take out his pipe or tobacco. It was just a reassuring pat in case his meeting turned out to be successful and he could light his pipe.

I’ve got a satchel outside on my horse, Himmel said. I’d better go and get it.

He set his cup down and walked to the door without Thor’s approval and went outside.

He saw the two riders as they pulled up at the hitch rail. He walked to his horse and untied the leather thongs that held his leather satchel. He had it in hand when Dane and Joe Eagle dismounted and started toward him.

If you’re from the Prairie Land Bank, mister, you can just put that satchel back on your horse.

Himmel turned around, his hand midway through the untying.

I am not from any bank, sir, Himmel said. Are you Dane Kramer?

I am.

Joe Eagle walked up. Both men were packing sidearms and Himmel looked down at the butts of their pistols.

I’m Otto Himmel. I rode here from Omaha up in Nebraska, and I’ve got a proposition for you. I’ve met your father. Drank a cup of coffee with him, in fact.

Dane stuck out his hand.

Himmel took it and the two shook hands

This is one of my hands, Joe Eagle, Dane said, stepping a half foot away.

Himmel held out his hand, but Joe merely nodded. Himmel withdrew his hand as if it were suddenly an unwanted appendage.

Come on in the house, Dane said. I’ll listen to what you have to say as long as you weren’t sent out here by Throckmorton.

I was not, nor have I ever met this Throckmorton, Mr. Kramer.

Call me Dane. Should I call you Otto or Mr. Himmel?

Otto is fine.

I put up the horses, Joe Eagle said.

Come on in when you’re through, Joe, Dane said.

Joe Eagle grunted a guttural hunh and led the horses to the stable about two hundred yards in the back of the house.

Himmel hefted his satchel and followed Dane into the house. The door, on a sash-weight spring, closed behind him.

Pa, Dane said, nodding to his father. You and Mr. Himmel have a good talk?

Thor thumped his cane on the floor and growled at his son, He don’t say much. Wouldn’t tell me nothin’ ’bout why he come here all the way from Nebraska.

Well, clean out your ears, Pa, and listen. We’ll both hear what Mr. Himmel has to say.

Harrumph, issued from Thor’s mouth, and he leaned back in his chair, his cane across his lap.

Have a seat, Mr. Himmel, Thor said. If there are foreclosure papers in that satchel, you might be carrryin’ them back outside in a different location.

Himmel sat down and set the satchel on his lap. He did not open it.

Mr. Kramer, Himmel said, I assure you there are no foreclosure papers in my satchel. I’ve come to you with an urgent request and a proposition.

You want coffee, Dane? Thor asked.

Dane shook his head. No, not yet, Pa. Let’s hear what the Omaha man has to say.

I’m all ears, Thor said.

Dane laughed. Himmel wore a serious look on his face.

Mr. Kramer, Himmel said,